Splendor
by King Caspian the Seafarer
Summary: A collection of short stories of Narnia, mostly centered on the Golden Age and the Pevensies. Chapter 17: Peter heals.
1. methods of fighting

_**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia._

_**A/N: **__I've been busy. Abominably so. And hopefully once school is ended, I shall have time to write once more. This, however, is a story I've begun in case I can't get around to finishing any plotlines I've got going at the present. This is a series of oneshots that take place in Narnia, and possibly in our world. Not sure about that yet. I'll try to post the time and place whenever I post a new chapter. :) _

_This one is Golden Age, told from Susan's POV._ _Some of the dialogue is from Stephen Lawhead's Pendragon, but referring to King Arthur, not King Peter (although it reminded me of both when I read it). I don't own that either._

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><p><strong>Splendor<strong>

_The splendor falls on castle walls_  
><em>And snowy summits old in story;<em>  
><em>The long light shakes across the lakes,<em>  
><em>And the wild cataract leaps in glory.<em>  
><em>Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, <em>  
><em>Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying. dying, dying.<em>

_-Alfred Lord Tennyso_n

**1.  
><strong>

The sun is large and beautiful in the Narnian spring, when it casts a strong, powerful light on the world that is coming to life again. It melts the snow to water the grass and makes the icicles give way to budding flowers, warms the skin instead of skating across it mockingly, gives the wind a merry touch that rings in the ears like laughter.

More often than not, the laughter belongs to Lucy, not the wind. She turns into a dryad on the first day of Rosebloom—becomes a laughing creature with flushed cheeks and hair full of tangled curls and daisies. She and I were different enough during the rest of the year, but in the spring, the contrast between her colorful gaiety and what my brothers call my sober radiance is greater. She is joyful; I am austere. She is sweet. I am beautiful. Like the difference between spring and autumn are the differences between me and Lucy.

Our brothers, too, are different. Lu and I loved to watch them fight in the battle yard, light on light, victorious smile and concentrated frown. Their swords would ring in the early morning air and send flashes of sunlight to where we, their sisters, sat in the shade of the apple tree used often for target practice. We would talk, Lu and I, as we watched our brothers grow stronger and skillful in the way of the blade.

And then there were the times when Edmund was at his desk or still in bed, and Peter was alone in the yards, whirling to the rhythm of an invisible drum, or practicing with one of his instructors or subjects. It was then that my sister made the most interesting observations.

"I have seen Edmund fight," Lucy reflected, breaking the silence (as was her habit) with whatever random notion took her fancy. "When the battle frenzy comes upon him, no one can stand against him."

"Well I know it," I replied, recalling our brother's extraordinary ability to turn himself into a fighting whirlwind. It was as if all his caution and subtlety that it took to be a politician and "paperwork" king of diplomacy was ripped away, and the rules did not matter—at least, not the rules of state.

"The battle frenzy grips him and Edmund loses himself," she continued, frowning thoughtfully. Our eldest brother of golden hair parried a blow and twisted his opponent's sword away. The light from the blades cast spots of gleaming yellow over my sister's face, and ignited her eyes. Her eyes, which were carefully trained on the face of the High King; the face that was serene and impossible innocent and void of fear. Most times, men were courageous despite their fear, but what was to be said about a man or boy who had no courage because he was not even afraid?

His blue eyes were alight with glory as he spun and batted at the other man's sword. He stabbed. He parried. He swiped for the knees with the flat. Yet there was nothing in his face save pure delight, unadultered ecstasy.

"But with Peter," Lucy was saying, breaking through my reflections with that thrilling voice that spoke of life and glowing vitality, "I think it must be the other way: he finds himself."


	2. burden

**2.**

Cold spread from the stone to their backs as they pressed up against the boulder. Their knuckles were white as they tightened their grips on their swords. Somewhere above and to the north, the sound of furious roarings reached them, bellows and howls, and then screams that might belong to men or fauns or talking beasts. Both the men clenched their jaws and waited until the sound abated. The one with brown hair looked as if he wanted to spring out and do something about the sound, but the other one held him back. When the noise was less, the younger turned to the elder.

"The letters we received said nothing of this."

The older one gave him a wan smile.

"Didn't want to worry you and the others."

The younger one let out a short laugh and leaned his head back against the rock.

"Worry us? It's a little late for that. Don't tell me it's been like this the whole time?"

His brother's silence answered that question well enough. The younger one opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, a huge rock hurtled through the air and smashed itself on the boulder against which the men were standing. The boulder shook as though the earth quaked, shards of stone ricocheted and caused both the men to throw up their hands to defend their faces.

With a great rippling of wings, a falcon dodged a stone in the air and swooped to land on the fair haired king's arm, which he raised to it.

"Sire," the bird gasped, breathing heavily, "the giants are attacking the left wing. We've incurred heavy losses. General Stonecloud asks that you order a retreat."

The fair man lowered his head and sighed so deeply that his shoulders drooped as if he was under a burden as heavy as the losses his army had received. He sheathed his sword and nodded at the falcon.

"Thank you, Garwing. I was just explaining to my brother why it is imperative that he return to the Cair." The king said this with a stern look at his younger brother.

The younger brother ignored him, instead speaking to the falcon. "Tell Stonecloud to give the order for retreat. We'll regroup under shelter of these cliffs and renew the attack in an hour."

As the falcon took flight, the fair king let out a cry and turned to his brother with a look. "You are not staying, brother. What should happen if both kings of Narnia were killed in one fell blow? I would not leave Susan and Lucy under such a burden."

"Nor would I," the younger replied. "But Peter—you're wounded. You haven't had a proper night's sleep or meal in two weeks at least. Protesting that you're right as rain in every letter you send us (despite the fact you're in the middle of a war and couldn't possibly be right as rain) is madness!"

"Edmund…"

The elder leaned against the boulder and rubbed his forehead, looking a good ten years older than he really was. He shifted his weight, because his leg ached.

"Peter," the younger king said gently, gripping his brother's shoulder, "you don't have to bear these burdens alone."

The fair haired king caught his breath and looked up to meet the other's steady gaze. The younger smiled at him and shook his head. "Why else do you think are four of us?"


	3. waiting

**3.**

His fingers caressed the worn pommel of the blade—battered and scratched from years of fighting. As he gripped the hilt, he felt his hand merge with the smooth leather, even though his hand was a good deal smaller than the sword's owner. It still felt right—a good blade. An old dwarf-made weapon, like as not. He wished he had one just like it.

"Corin."

He jumped nearly a foot and jerked his head around to stare at the man with light brown hair who was watching him calmly. His fingers tightened around the sword subconsciously, and it was with an effort (plus one deep sigh) that he stood, clumsily, and offered the blade to the man.

"Here. Are you sure you have to do this?"

The king took the sword from his hands and belted it on skillfully, despite the fact that his thick leather gloves probably hindered his fingers.

"Corin, we've been over this already. You of all people should understand what a breach of honor it would be to withdraw from such a challenge."

"I know," the fair-haired prince said, quietly (which was odd in itself, because when was Corin ever quiet?), "but still—I don't trust him."

King Edmund hesitated a moment, and then grinned (and the grin made him look a good five years younger). "You're not still jealous, are you?" When the prince did not answer, he rumpled the lad's hair fondly. "Trust me, prince, you will have many years, when you are older, to fight in the name of Queen Susan. My sister is fond of you—as are we all."

"Then why won't you let me fight him—or let someone else fight him?" Corin cried, helping the king on with one of his gauntlets. "And why, of all things, did it have to be a joust?"

"He challenged me—it was his decision." Edmund frowned suddenly. "Corin. This uncommon concern on your part is not at all brought on by any irrational fear you might have concerning doubts about my skills as a jouster?"

A quick grin flashed across the prince's face (he was remembering the practice rounds from yesterday, with the quintain), and he was so busy trying to contain the urge to either burst out laughing or burst into tears that he just settled with staying silent. Edmund let out a frustrated growl.

"Lion's mane—first Peter and half our knights, and now you. Look—I'm not so bad at jousting. I'm much better than I was. It's just that I never really…well…took to it."

"Never took to horses, more like. Which is why _I_ should be the one—"

"What is it with everyone trying to protect me?" Edmund asked, jamming on his other gauntlet and then grinding his teeth in pain when he pinched one of his fingers. "Peter's still got a few broken ribs from the giants, and you're half my age—"

"More than that," Corin put in.

"Barely." Edmund grabbed his helmet from the table, and then turned and gave Corin a look, taking in the worry in the prince's sky blue eyes. "Stop worrying. After all, you've got the hardest part of all to play."

Prince Corin raised an eyebrow in bemusement, and Edmund gave him a very, very small smile.

"The waiting."


	4. apples

**4.**

She stands in the courtyard and stares up at the sky, rubbing the rough bark thoughtfully. It is very, very monochromatic; shades of gray with brown and greenish speckled moss as decoration. A young tree.

Her view of the sky is blocked by its spindly little arms—branches that reach prayerfully to the heavenly void (which isn't exactly void because there's a cloud and it's shaped like a hat). Lucy smiles and twists around her finger one of the unruly curls that has managed to escape the elaborate dressing her sister and chambermaid trapped the rest of her hair into. If she could have her way, it would all be free—wild and tangled, waving in the wind like the leaves and grass around her.

There is an apple on the grass a few feet away—an apple the color of amber. It did not fall from the tree with the spindly arms; that tree was planted yesterday, and the dirt around its roots is still turned darkside up. No, this apple is from one of the other trees in the orchard (there are only ten big enough to climb and bear fruit, which is why Pomena helped them plant some more).

Picking up the apple and taking a huge, scrumptious bite, Queen Lucy closes her eyes in delight and lets the taste of summer dance across her tongue, until every bit of her is awake and alive. She turns and sits down—not next to the old tree, but next to the new one. She knows she should care more that the fresh soil is dirtying her pale yellow skirt…but she doesn't. Susan may mind if her younger sister wears a dirty skirt, but Lucy certainly doesn't.

The bark pokes through the back of her dress. Lucy wrinkles her nose and remembers how easily Peter's hand fit around it, as he helped them lower it into the ground. All the way around…such a tiny trunk. And yet, leaning against it, she wonders how long it will take for the slenderness of the tree to turn stout—for the rough bark to grow scarred and rougher.

"How many years this tree shall see," she says aloud, thoughtfully. "I suppose it'll live longer than any of us, and see ages and ages of what'll someday be history. What will it be like, I wonder, in a thousand years?"

She looks up and imagines a sky of leaves—tall, ancient limbs that are crowned with dozens of apples, both yellow and red (for it would be a lousy orchard that had just one kind of apple). And, twisting the apple blossom in her fingers, she smiles and wonders what they'll think of her and the others in a thousand years—if anyone in Narnia, or anywhere, for that matter, will remember.

"How funny it would be to see you in a thousand years," she murmurs, stroking the bark gently as she takes another bite from the golden apple. But the air is fresh and the smell of apple blossoms blowing on the wind soon clears her carefree mind of such heavy thoughts.

But she does not forget the taste of those apples.


	5. dark

**A/N: This is not Golden Age. I apologise. I'll leave it to you to figure out what book it's from. :)  
><strong>

** So...tis a rather dark chapter. If you'll pardon the pun. *snicker* I'm not really sure what brought this on...just a vague idea about Eustace going through the stable door, and wondering how some Calormene managed to get him weaponless. But I had to post something, so here you are.  
><strong>

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><p><strong>5.<strong>

Pain.

He folds over, screaming wordlessly as the searing blaze of agony shreds thought and reason. Through the fog, he wonders why it took so long to hit him.

He's tired of fighting in the dark. He fought with his own fear the first time, staring blindly out into the darkness of Nightmare and remaining only about a footstep from yanking his sword from his sheath. The second time was worse—the blackness was all around them for an age, closing in while they wandered and wandered and struggled with their minds until at last the serpent's head flopped to the floor.

But this time. Not only is there darkness around them, as the night closes in, held back by the satanic red glow of the fire, but another darkness hangs over the land, weighs his soul down, seeps into his very mind even as he clashes swords with the scimitar of a man. His face is dark too.

They're all dark. The night is full of dark figures whirling to and fro, stabbing and skittering away. Flashes of red come from their armor. Come from the wounds they hold as they stagger backward, retreating, retreating.

The drums seem to herald the darkness. As they pound and pound and pound he wants to drop his sword and turn and cover his ears with his hands like a child. Because he hates it. Hates the dark. He always has and he always will.

The scimitar sweeps by him, catching him in the knee in the moment of hesitation as he listens to the drums. They're everywhere—swarming around him. Not only these warriors from the dark, but the cries of the dead—the scream of a Unicorn—the howl of a wolf. He feels himself jerk backward and looks down to see a scimitar sticking out of him.

He falls to his knees, slowly. There seems to be some commotion around him, someone shouting at him even though he hasn'thasn't done anything. Then the pain hits and his scream joins that of the Unicorn and wolf, ringing in the air like bells of death.

The man before him jerks the scimitar out of him and begins to drag him. An animal reflex lunges up in Eustace, who suddenly knows that even death, even this closing in of the dark around the corners of his vision—anything is better than the Stable. He fights the man. He thrashes, curses, ignores the steadily growing splotch of wetness under his torn coat of mail.

But it's no good. He hears someone else scream and just before the Calormene flings him through the doorway, Eustace turns and sees Jill, although it's a wonder he can see anything now that everything's gotten so dark. Then he's through and the door slams behind him and he wonders how long it will take him to die.

Voices. He hears voices and the sound of footsteps on cool turf. To his utter astonishment, the pain subsides, then vanishes, along with the darkness that had poisoned his mind. He feels fresh. Cool. Light.

Light is what he sees when he opens his eyes—the light of a sunny meadow with flowers—a light that's reflected in the eyes of his cousins as they bend over him and help him to his feet.

And suddenly, Eustace isn't afraid of the dark anymore.


	6. philosophy

**A/N: So. I've been reading Merlin fanfiction and decided some dialogue was in order. Here's some Princes of Archenland for you, sometime during Golden Age. :) Enjoy.**

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><p><strong>6.<strong>

"Corin?"

"Mm?"

"Why do you suppose we're here?"

"Because we were born."

"But why? No—I didn't mean _that_, but why us and not someone else? And really, what are we? What if we're not us, but someone else instead?"

"…."

"I mean, I could've been anyone. You could've been anyone. Why here and now and us?"

"…because."

"Because? That's not an answer!"

"I wasn't finished. Because…we are."

"….thanks. A lot."

"Mm. Anytime. Now leave me alone. I'm trying to sleep here."

"I was being sarcastic. You're no help."

"Mm."

"D'you suppose we're here for a reason? That our fates are predetermined and no matter what we do we'll always end up on the path we're meant to follow?"

"Yes. No. Does it really matter?"

"Well it should."

"Well it doesn't."

"Typical."

"Bookish."

"Nitwit."

"….now that's cruel, Cor."

"S'true. You don't seem to have an opinion on anything."

"I have opinions on who needs to be knocked down. Just hope I'm too comfortable here on the grass to follow them through."

"Oh yes. On the grass. With flowers in your hair."

"You're one to talk. How princely you look with that daisy crown."

"Shut up."

"Why?"

"Because."

"…because you rather like it since it was made for you personally by a certain pretty girl with cinnamon skin? Ow—hey!"

"You're not the only one who can knock people down, you know!"

"Mmhmm."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not."

"…I'm not speaking to you, Corin."

"Good. By the way, since when are you imitating Aravis?"

"Right, that's it. Get up."

"No."

"…would you get up if I told you it was predestined that you did?"

"No."

"…if I threatened to start on logic and rhetoric?"

"…Cor. Why must our arguments always end in you getting knocked down?"

"Because you can't fight with words and must resort to brutal force."

"Right. That's it. You might want to start coming up with something to tell Father about why you've got a bloody nose."

"I haven't got a bloody nose."

"Yet."


	7. drains

**A/N: I promised one reviewer that we'd have another Edmund and Peter fic soon, but as I was reading "A Study in Scarlet" by A.C. Doyle this morning, my brain caught the word "drains" in accordance with an empty house (in fact, a house there was a murder committed in) and of course Magician's Nephew was the first thing to come to mind. So this is not Golden Age, not even in Narnia, I'm afraid. And you could call it a crossover (which is interesting, because there are no recorded Narnia/Sherlock Holmes crossovers in the databanks. I checked).**

**By the way, if you have any requests for future oneshots, I'd be grateful. My creativity meter has been a bit...lopsided lately. :P**

**Enjoy.**

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><p>7.<p>

"…_them two houses in Lauriston Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them who won't have the drains seed to, though the very last tenant what lived in one of them died o' typhoid fever…"_

_-Sherlock Holmes, a Study in Scarlet_

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><p>"Polly," said Digory one day, when they were up in the Smuggler's cave, "I forgot to tell you—I was talking to Uncle Andrew the other day, and he told me why the house next to ours is empty."<p>

"Good heavens!" Polly twirled a curl around her finger and let out a laugh. "Can you believe we thought it was going to be such an adventure? And look at all that happened—we never even got to the empty house! Well, why is it empty, then?"

A wide grin spread across Digory's face—one that was becoming much more frequent as his mother's health got better day after day after day since their adventure. "You know how your father said it might be the drains?"

Polly nodded. "Daddy knows about that sort of thing, you know."

Digory rolled his eyes. "Well Aunt Letty said that's part of why nobody lives there, but then she wouldn't give the rest of the reason until Uncle Andrew piped up and told me why."

He stopped, and looked over at her cashbox, wondering if she would let him read her story (the old one or the new one she'd started after their adventure—he didn't much care which) in exchange for this news. She didn't really give him a chance to decide, though.

"Well?"

Leaning forward, Digory put on a secretive expression. "Does the name 'Sherlock Holmes' mean anything to you?"

Polly's eyes widened. "He's been there?"

"Not just been there, silly—there was a murder there, and Holmes was the one to solve it."

"A murder! Gosh—and we almost went inside." Polly shuddered, whether with excitement or horror Digory could not tell. Perhaps a little of both. He cleared his throat.

"They say the owner hasn't cleaned it up since—well, not that there's blood everywhere. It was poison. But the murderer had a nosebleed and wrote 'Rache' on the wall."

"What, Rache? For Rachel?"

"No, silly. It's German for 'revenge'."

"That's ridiculous. Why would anyone write 'revenge' in German on the wall? Makes it sound like some sort of Communist thingummy."

"Perhaps the murderer was German and wanted revenge."

"So he made his own nose bleed so he could write it on the wall?" Polly snorted. "It'd be so much more romantic if he was trying to scrawl the name of his long lost love, but was rudely interrupted by the police—or Holmes."

"Romantic—what rubbish."

"It's not either."

"Tis so."

"Well I think yours is rubbish. And I don't think half those things are true. _If _the murderer did write the word on the wall than why wouldn't the owner have fixed things up since then—or the police, or cleaners, or somebody?"

"Look, Pol," said Digory, candidly. "There's one way to settle all this, and it's only about a hundred or so steps across those rafters."

"…Daddy said someone died from typhoid because of the drains."

"You're not scared are you? Of the blood?"

Polly gave him a very, very stern look. And then she smiled, sweetly, detecting a little bit of nervousness in her friend's eyes as he challenged her.

"Of course not, Digs. You know very well that I'm game if you are."


	8. dungeon

**A/N: ****This one is Peter and Edmund stuck in a dungeon. Which isn't actually something that happens all the time (them being imprisoned together), but I was feeling Merlin-ish and Arthur and Merlin remind me of Peter and Edmund (ish...Peter isn't a prat), and this resulted. :) Kind of an irony fic. Anyhow. Enjoy.**

**YoungDreamer: It's not exactly like the other Edmund and Peter chapter, but I gave it a stab. :)**

**Bastables, Aravis and Cor, and more to come!**

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><p><strong>-<strong>_A good friend will come bail you out of jail, but a best friend will be sitting next to you saying, "We sure messed up, but boy was that fun."_-**  
><strong>

**8.**

"Peter?"

"Mm?" Peter craned his neck to get a look at Edmund.

"How is it that we always seem to end up in situations like this? I mean, logistically, it should be impossible."

"How's that?" He didn't feel much like talking. His lip hurt. Lion's mane, all of him hurt.

"Think about it. The number of…erm, eligible females who end up at Cair Paravel or in the middle of our exploits indicate that there are more than thirty unique countries with large bodies of nobility surrounding Narnia. The percentage of aforementioned eligible females who end up betraying us to the enemy or who are plotting our demise for some reason or other should reveal a startling amount of people who are trying to see to our downfall."

Peter snorted—and then winced. It isn't wise to make that sort of noise when you have a broken nose. "What, Ed? Still sore about Lady Belinda?"

The chilly silence following his remark was only broken by his muffled laughter, as he realized he'd hit the proverbial nail on the head.

"Oh," the younger king began again, sounding a little flustered and annoyed, "Right. Because you've never fallen for a beautiful young damsel who's led us into a trap or gotten us into trouble without meaning to." He made a sound that might've been a cough but which sounded a lot like "Fair Gwendolyn". Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and winced at the loud sound the chains made when they clanked against each other.

"Without even taking into account the dragons, sea monsters, evil regents, Calormenes, and Remnant Followers of the Witch," Edmund's voice continued, growing dryer with each thing he added to the list, "the odds of our having survived up to this point are microscopically small."

"Odds do not win a battle," Peter said. Which made Edmund laugh. And then start coughing at the end of the laugh which made Peter strain even harder to see him, because he was pretty sure his brother had taken a stab to the lungs. Eventually the coughing faded and the stillness settled on them again, broken only by the sound of the guards pacing past their cell every sixty-seven seconds.

"So," continued the High King, rubbing at his wrists. "Have you figured the odds of escaping yet?"

"About a hundred to one," his brother replied, trying to sound amused, although Peter could hear a trace of worry in his voice. "Unless Lucy's coming with the Cavalry…well, let's just hope King Yvres has forgotten about his son dying in that tournament at the Cair."

"He'll probably want to torture us," Peter mused, leaning back against the wall. "They always want to torture us."

There was a spot of silence before Edmund replied, "I see. You do have more experience with being captured than I do, so if you'll forgive me for thinking that torture is a bad thing that I'm not really looking forward to."

Peter laughed again, banishing his anxieties because he knew his little brother needed him to be brave. He really hoped the sword had missed Edmund's lung. Really hoped. He gave one final twist to the key in his hands and let out the breath he'd been holding as the manacle on his hand swung open.

"Don't worry, little brother. They can only torture us if we're still here when they come."

He turned around and finally set eyes on his brother. The blasted king had chained them facing opposite ways, but now Peter felt the knot of worry ease in his stomach, even though Edmund was looking rather worse for the wear, with a yellowish line of bruises all along the right side of his face. His eyes were closed as he shot back, irritably, "Oh, I see. You're going to spirit us out of here just in the nick—because heavens knows it wouldn't have done to get us out before they roughed us up asking all those questions."

In reply, Peter held back a smile as he grabbed his brother's arm and pulled him upright. Edmund's eyes opened like a shot, just in time to see the bands fall of his own wrists. Peter really did laugh when he saw the look of utter bewilderment in the other boy's face.

"Ah. But I didn't have the key, before."


	9. spurs

**A/N: It really shouldn't be this hard to update a fic like this. In fact...*looks over shoulder*...I'm , and writingtwopapers and cleaningmyroommaybe, but don't tell anyone. :)**

**This is AravisXCor sort of, but it's more reflective than actual romance. Soon I'm going to do a fun one, with Aravis and Cor and Corin...but until then, this'll have to do. And I've got a few more in mind. Thank you all so much for your reviews and patience!**

**Enjoy.**

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><p>9.<p>

She was hot and dripping with sweat when she swung down from her stallion inside the Hermit's gates, but really, at the moment, Aravis was too furious to care.

"Give me work," she snapped, tossing a thick sheet of hair and braids over her shoulder as she met the gaze of a somewhat bemused Hermit (he'd been tending his goats all morning, and was not expecting visitors).

"Work?" the Hermit repeated.

"Something. Anything. Let me weed your garden—milk the goats—anything."

He would've been more bewildered if this hadn't happened about twice or thrice a month since the engagement. They'd agreed to wait a year before marrying, to make perfectly certain they could last that long without killing one another, and at this rate the prospects were slightly grimmer than they had been near the beginning.

"I have some old gear that needs going through," said the Hermit, too perspicacious to ask what had sparked this latest passion. "In the stables—you can see to it after you see to your horse."

Jerking her head in a sharp nod (she was far too angry to think of thanking even him right now), Aravis whirled and marched toward the stable, towing a somewhat annoyed stallion behind her.

And now, here she was. Sitting on a musty pile of hay and staring at a heap of old sacks and saddles and what appeared to be moth-eaten clothing. The Hermit granted lodging to any travellers who came through—a tradition that had begun long before Hwin and Bree had limped into the sheltered courtyard with her half-fainting with her back in agony, and Shast—

Aravis took a breath and ran a hand through her hair, as if trying to rake the thoughts of him out of her mind. Her hands trembled as she reached over to poke at the pile, and it was then, sitting in the dark trying _not_ to think about the fight, about the way the words had snapped unbidden from her lips like flashes of fire…of the way his eyes could be so furious one moment and so hurt the next.

Her anger dissolved and fled through her stinging eyes until the only sign it had ever existed was the slightly wet streaks running down the sides of her face. Aravis rubbed them away with her sleeve and reached for the first sack—work. Work would clear her mind, even if it was something as monotonous and distasteful as going through old gear (for, it is certain, there were things in those sacks that had perhaps once been provisions but which were now non-edible lumps at which even the mice turned up their noses).

The first saddlebag held several bolts of moth-eaten cloth. It smelled of wet-horse, and Aravis tossed it to the side, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

And yet, pungent and nasty as it was, the smell brought back memories—of a racing heart, fumbling at her belt to trytotryto grab her sword—jerking forward in the saddle and hearing the sound of a roar behind her, in her ears, consuming her.

Smell of hot horse. Smell of hot self. A bright blue sky that soon faded to a pale brilliance as the sun grew larger and commanded the shadows away. She could almost feel the dryness in her throat—the all-consuming thirst.

Aravis swallowed and picked up a second sack. Inside this one was a bundle of thread-worn, muddy rags. She picked it up with her fingertips and lifted it gingerly to set it beside the cloth—but something shifted inside the tangle—something that jerked free of the cloth and clattered onto the floor of the room.

A pair of spurs, tied together carefully with a leather strand that had somehow survived the years it had been here. Clear silver gleamed beneath a surface of weathering; that and the distinct Calormene designs and metalwork told her these spurs had travelled a very long way.

But then, so had she. It came back, as it always did, like a wash of ice water over her skin, shocking enough to startle a gasp from her lungs. It always struck her like a blow, after arguing with Cor. It was as if she simply forgot all they had gone through together, the way he'd run back to rescue her, the way he'd seen how it must feel to be a stranger in a new land and invited her to come to live at Anvard—gave her a family, and a home.

More than that, she always forgot that after ever argument, every quarrel, he always made it up to her. Always. Even if he hadn't been the one to start the trouble (being fair-minded, Aravis would not hesitate to claim the blame for that—or to blame it on Corin), Cor was the one who apologized.

It was his humility that did it, Aravis thought, as she rubbed the spurs and wished her heart wouldn't ache so. His humility in always assuming the guilt…that was what spurred her on to of course, forgive him and be humble back in turn, until all was well again.

There was the sound of voices from outside, and hoofbeats, and Aravis smiled in spite of herself. She stood and left the dark shed behind—squinting in the bright light outside, but oh-so-glad to be free of the smells of imprisonment and self-pity. And there he was, looking so right and yet so unprincely atop his big gray gelding, talking quietly to the Hermit. She waited for a second, until he noticed she was standing there and froze, a little, before swinging down from his horse and walking over to her.

"I've come to apologize," said Cor.

And that was that.


	10. winter

**A/N: This little ficlet takes place during the Hundred Year Winter. It's been plaguing me for a little while now, and the time of year is about right, methinks. :) Enjoy.**

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><p><strong>10.<strong>

He is only seven years old when he first meets her—a mischievous, bright eyed boy with a mop of pale yellow hair. It is a cool autumn day that has a curious bite to it, and he's running through the courtyard when he knows, just knows, that something isn't right. Perhaps it is the sudden knife of the icy North wind that leaves him breathless in the courtyard—perhaps the sight of the first snowflake of the season. At first the boy is pleased by the snow, but it stings his skin and makes it itch, and it is abruptly very clear to him that this is not friendly snow.

There are strange people in the street—at least, he thinks they are people. They're all dressed in dark, tattered cloaks, and some of them are making strange noises, and some of them are very tall. A tall, beautiful sledge is standing by the stables, six mournful, shivering reindeer strapped to the front. There is a path of snow on which the sledge has crossed the cobblestones of the street—and now the boy knows something is wrong, because there shouldn't be enough snow anywhere in Anvard for a sledge to ride on.

And then a voice hisses at him, "There you are, highness! Where have you been? Quickly—into the hall before you catch your death!"

His nurse. He tries to duck away from her firm grasp, but she has him by the arm and is towing him painfully up the stairs in the hall when another voice, which could very well be the North wind for all the warmth in it, cries, "Stop!"

The nurse freezes (ironically), and releases her hold on him. The boy turns around and sees his father (thank the Lion, for surely Father will know what is wrong with the snow!). He does not understand why his father is frowning until he is already halfway across the room to him and sees the tall Woman standing beside him.

The boy checks himself, but does not halt. In a glance he takes in everything about her, and he knows, from that icy blue stare, and that jagged crystalline crown, that this is the Cold Voice he heard. This is the cause of the Wrong Snow, the bringer of the sledge and the dark creatures in the street who he is sure are not people at all. Her hair is black, yes, and luxuriously long, but her face is white—not just pale, but white like the face of a dead thing.

"Father!" he says, wrapping his arms around the man and burying his face in the warm, reassuring cloak that smells of tobacco and peppermint. "Father."

His father's hand brushes over his hair, and then pulls him back. His hands are shaking. The boy is confused.

"So," says the North wind-Woman, "this is your son?"

"Yes," his father, the King of Archenland, says back. "This is my son."

Those cold blue eyes rake over him like icy fingers of fear, and the boy shivers involuntarily, although he does not look away.

"What is your name, boy?"

His throat constricts, but the boy lifts his chin and says, in a thin but proud voice, "Lune."

"Lune." He doesn't like how she says it, giving the sound of the letters a cruel, harsh twist. His stomach churns, but he nods a little, almost like a bow. "Lune. Do you know who I am?"

He stares into those cold blue eyes and feels the fear wisp over him before vanishing in a flash of anger. Does he know who she is.

"You're Jadis."

The woman laughs coldly. "Does he mean to be impudent, my friend, or is he merely ignorant of my rank?" The king's lips press together as the woman bends and cups Lune's cheek in her hand (which is also as cold as death). Her dangerous eyes bore deep into his, and he wonders if perhaps she is searching for something. Only one thing is in his mind as he stares at her—beautiful, in a harsh, cold sort of way. Terrifying, yet also somehow mortal (even though it is rumored that she's lived for millennia, since before the beginning of the World). He knows that she is evil, that she murdered Narnia's king and queen seventy years ago, when his father's father was yet alive.

And as he stares into her hateful, scathing eyes, he wonders why no one has done anything about it yet. Why his father allows her to trample through Anvard once every five or so years, to be sure they are "behaving themselves". He thinks, "When I am king, I will fight her with all my being."

But for now, he says nothing, and focuses on not shivering as the icy hand holds his gaze steadily on hers. It was the first time he had thought about being king—and Lune often remarked, as he told the story to his two sons, many years later in the summertime, that after meeting the White Witch, he no longer minded much about growing up.


	11. kipling

**A/N: You would not _believe_ how long it took me to write this. It's not Golden Age and it's /not/ the jolly Bastable fic I had in mind, but it took me 2500 words of horrible Bastable/Narnia crossover fics to get this, so I hope you're happy.**

**You won't be, of course, despite the little hints I've made about Kipling (if you've read the Wouldbegoods or the Story of the Treasure Seekers, you'll understand). I firmly intend to give the Bastables another go, sometime soon in the future. However, for now, this is all you're getting.**

**Gary is the fourth of six children belonging to Oswald Bastable. He has an oldest brother, Erroll, and twins brother and sister Ned and Nell, and two younger siblings. He has a cousin named Rudyard who goes to Experiment House with a certain Scrubb. (Most of this was decided in the first crossover fic I attempted, which was actually a very dull Christmas party in which I basically just explained the Bastable family tree. Ugh. Too much essay-writing is the cause of this, I'll be bound!)**

**I'm sorry it's not more exciting. I really do intend to write a better one. But for now, enjoy.**

**11.**

"I hate Kipling," she says one day, and means it, too.

Her companion, bright-haired and utterly British, lets out a very attractive laugh and leans his head against the tree behind him. "Why on earth, Su? What's the poor fellow ever done to you?"

"He's—I don't know. So fanciful and foolish," she replies, flipping through the worn pages of_ the Jungle Book_ one more time before she casts it aside on the grass like the remains of a cigarette. "I know I must have liked him once upon a time, but I never really understood him."

"Poor fellow," her companion repeats. He himself never minds a taste or two of Kipling, after supper, when his older siblings have ceased going on about politics, and his younger siblings have stopped chattering his ear off.

"Don't see why you care, Gary," Susan says, sighing and inspecting her fingernails with the greatest interest. "He wasn't much of a writer—they're just children's stories."

He thinks, with a wince, that the name Gary sounds so modern on her lips. His real name is Gaheris, and although, being a rugby player, he should not really be much concerned with sentimentality, he somehow wishes she'd use that instead of "Gary".

"Children's stories often have a lot of truth in them. Kipling could say more with one sentence than another writer—especially some of these modern rotters—could manage to convey in an entire jabberwocky of a novel."

"_Don__'__t_ tell me you like Carroll too?"

"Just Jabberwocky."

"You _would_ like Jabberwocky."

A moment of silence grows between the two, as the young man grins and rolls over into the grass, and the young woman smiles a little and twists a flower around her finger. The young man glances over at her, and something in her face makes his grin grow a little less merry.

"Are you holding up alright, Su? Really, I mean—and don't give me any of that jazz about moving on and starting afresh, because it doesn't happen that easily. My family knows that just as well as yours."

"What's left of mine," Susan mutters, snapping the stem of the flower in half and then wishing she hadn't.

"This hating Kipling—it's new, I think. I mean, I know you haven't cared for him in years, but Ed always said—"

"Please." Her voice is hard and trembling all at once. "Don't play therapist with me Gary. I know perfectly well what you're up to, slipping my brother's name into the conversation so casually, and I jolly well—"

"—are going to bite my head off about it because you think that'll make it better, I know," Gary snaps back. "It's not easy for me either, Su. He was my best friend. We played rugby together."

She feels a pang of compassion (well, that's something new for a change) but is confused because that's just one more thing to add to how she feels about Gaheris Bastable. He's fair like Peter, of an age of Edmund, and his temperament and catching grin reminds her of a young boy she has tried to forget (because he's deaddeaddead and she doesn't know how but it still hurts) with that same mischievous smile and a laugh that catches like fire. The words swell up in her throat and choke her but when they surface they sound like a sob.

Gary jerks his eyes up and sees that at last the wall around the tower has begun to crack. He takes her hand, and it is enough.

Because hate that exists for someone who is already dead, like Kipling, like her family, like a world in a wardrobe and all the people she used to love, is so hopelessly hard to keep up.


	12. always winter

**A/N: Just realized that it was Christmas Eve and I hadn't yet written a Christmas fic. *face falls* It really is an awful feeling to get, especially on Christmas Eve. I really will try to write an actual separate fic for Christmas (maybe tonight or later tomorrow?) but until then, this is going to have to do.**

**Enjoy. If you dare.  
><strong>

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><p><strong>12.<strong>

She shivers all the way down to her icy cold paws as she stares out the window at the falling snow. It is piling up all around them, all around their little dam. And yet, had it ever done anything but? Had there ever been a time when there was not snow coming at them from all sides, veritably choking them; swallowing the slightest hint of heat and light and joy?

She'd been born a good sixty years after the beginning of the Long Winter in a warm little dam, not much different from this one. All but one of her siblings died that year, because how do you feed six kits when nothing has grown from the frozen ground in decades? Somehow she and her younger sister scraped through the thin months. Their mother fed them fish until they knew no other taste. And then her family had been caught by the wolves and slaughtered, and she was alone.

There was a reason she and her husband were referred to as "Beaver and Mrs. Beaver". They were the only Beavers left—the only talking beavers—in all of Narnia, perhaps in all the world. Beaver had saved her from the same wolves that had taken her family, as they hunted her mercilessly in the days that followed the slaughter. They found nooks in the land and friends who took them in to hide them until the beasts had given up chase and all was well. And then they began to build.

Their dam would one day become the site of a town which would become a city which would be ruled by lords as its own Royal Province. Two battles were fought there, one that took place just before the beginning of the Long Winter (it was, ironically, the same battle in which their dear friend Tumnus' father had died) and one many years later against marauders from the west. Yet in the day that snow covered the ground and the She-Beaver looked out the window and felt its heaviness pile in drifts upon her heart, the days of glory were still buried in the folds of Future's cloak.

Because she and Beaver had never known the days before the Winter, they did well enough at surviving. He learned to cut holes in the stream to fish for food, and the envoys from Calormen who traveled to the Witch's Court often brought supplies of food that could be scavenged from their packs when all of them lay dead, slaughtered by the hungry flesh-eating wolves. So it was that they had marmalade and potatoes and the beer that Beaver learned to like.

However, even though there was nothing to distinguish this day from any other, when the snow came falling, falling, falling from the grey, winter sky, Mrs. Beaver had been taught to keep record of the days; and this day was Christmas Eve.

Father Christmas would not come tomorrow. He had never come in all her days, and might yet never come, for she and Beaver had lived half the span of their lives, and might not even reach next year's age of forty-one. However, even though it was just a legend from her mother, from her neighbors and friends, she believed in Father Christmas as firmly as she believed in Aslan himself. And where would she be without her belief in Aslan?

One Hundred Years. One Hundred Years of Winter, of believing-without-seeing about hope and joy and this thing they called the sun, and this thing they called spring. Always winter, and never Christmas. And yet in the roughly furnished dam over the frozen river, something warmer than just a fire glows from within. It might be always winter and never Christmas, but always at the front of Mrs. Beaver's mind, as she waits by her sewing machine for her husband to return from his errand (by the Lion, poor Tumnus!) is the thought that someday, somehow, the spring that she has never known is coming.

And when it does, Winter will be no more.

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><p><strong>Merry Christmas, everyone!<strong>


	13. rumors of the north

13.

It was said to be a savage land of snow and ice, of cloaks made of fur, looking rough and rugged, but thick and hearty enough to keep the winter wind from cutting you to the marrow.

It was said that the High King was as tall as a giant, with hair like gold and eyes that would burn you through when he was angry. He rode a horse as large as a small elephant, and his sword weighed thirty pounds. Do not cross the Peter-king, they said. But ware more the crossing of his family.

It was said that his lady was a gracious queen, fairer even than Swanwhite, whose beauty outlived the rest of her character (and her story, which was lost among other things in the Hundred Year Winter). Her hair was black like ravens against the night sky, and her eyes shone like diamonds, yet they could be as cold as the Northern wind if treachery or cruelty hung in the air.

It was said that there was another—a king of shadows and mystery. He was dark like the people of the south, and children were made to stay in bed at night by warnings their parents gave in the form of the stories of how the Shadow-king had slipped into the Great City like a ghost and stolen away his sister and fifty soldiers in the dead of night, and turned the crown prince into a donkey to boot.

It was said that the last was innocent and carefree and heartless as the winter wind, and led men and wolves into battle with her icy scepter glittering and her eyes laughing at death. Her name alone was remembered—Valiant. The word did not mean bravery in the South. It meant terrifying. She could speak to the trees and summon their spirits to fight for her, and she alone knew the secrets of the Beast.

It was said that it was a Beast, anyway, which had killed the demon-witch and set the Four on their icy thrones. But after the demon-witch, the demon-Lion was a horror beyond all horrors. It was said that it shone with a fierce light, and that any who looked at it either melted in fear or went mad. Its teeth were like unbreakable icicles, and it left no paw prints in the snow. And once—it was just a rumor, which most knowledgeable and learned Calormenes dismissed as a fairy tale—once, it was said that the Lion had conquered death.

…but then, it was always said that the Calormenes leaned toward being rather superstitious about the things they did not (could not) understand.

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><p><strong>AN: **Yes, I know you thought it was AU for a minute there. I love the hint Lewis gave us in the Horse and His Boy of all the ridiculous stories Lasaraleen (and obviously other Calormenes) knows and believe about Narnia. This would take place a bit after (or maybe a good bit after) the events of HHB. I always thought was interesting how long Calormene lasted, when Narnia got taken by the White Witch, then by Telmarines after the Pevensies left, then eventually by Caspian's line. "Under New Leadership...again".

Anyhow. I hope you enjoyed this little piece. I'm thinking for future chapters, maybe another Edmund and Peter brotherfic (in a dungeon, mayhap? If I haven't tortured them enough...), something with Bastables, and something about the Tashbaan Watch (who for some reason sound, in my head, nothing at all like anyone else from Calormen). Comments? Suggestions? I could do prompts, maybe. Like, if you have a good line of dialogue or a funny idea that can be contained in one sentence...


	14. another dungeon

**A/N: Oh, lovely. Another fic with Peter and Edmund in a dungeon. This one's a little more angsty and not quite as amusing as previous dungeon-installments. *shakes head* I don't understand why it is so interesting to see them in these sorts of horrible places, but my personal opinion is that it brings out the best in their characters, rather like how persecution and tribulation is the "refiner's fire" and is the process that shapes us into who we will be one day.**

To my anonymous reviewer (emjay): I replied to all the other reviews via PM, but I hope you'll end up reading this reply on here. Thanks very much for your review! I, also, have found that fanfictions enrich my understanding of and love for Narnia, so much so that I'll be reading one of the books and feel almost as if something is missing. I shall definitely think about writing up a Susan and Lucy chapter (suitor-talk is a good idea...:D). Thanks again!

**Enjoy. Bastables (I dearly hope!) up next.**

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><p>14.<p>

He was getting stiff, lying curled in the same position in which they'd dragged him into the tiny cell, weak and trembling with exertion and pain. And his arm was twisted under him, the rough stone beginning to gnaw at his bruised and beaten skin, but he had not the strength to move it.

He was almost asleep (because no matter how badly it hurts, he had never had hurt overwhelm utter exhaustion) when the little secret window at the bottom of the wooden door slid open. It was the door between his cell and the next, and had long been bolted and sealed shut. The cell next to his had been empty for days, ever since they caught him talking to the disheartened old lady who had been its former inhabitant and had punished him for it before removing her. Now, he lifted his head as much as he could and squinted as the faint rays of light shone in through the little door.

"Peter?" The voice was quiet, but sharp with surprise and bewilderment. Peter would have jerked in amazement if he'd had the strength, but as it was, he only managed to make a sort of gasping noise in his throat. "Peter—is it you?"

It took a monumental effort to push himself up from the floor and drag himself a few more inches until he was up next to the little window, but it was worth it when he looked through and saw his brother's face, peering in at him anxiously.

"Ed!"

They both reached forward at the same time, and though the hole was too small for much, they clasped hands. Peter let out a sigh of slight relief—Edmund's grip was very strong.

"I was so worried," Edmund was saying, his dark eyes gleaming, though his face was in a sort of light shadow. The other cell seemed to have more light. "They've asked me questions and threatened me with…with a lot of things. And they kept refusing to let me see you. I don't know why they would now…"

"Ed, you're alright?" His lips were dry, and when he wet them with his swollen tongue, they tasted of coppery blood. "They haven't hurt you? Lion's mane, if they've so much as touched you…"

For a second he thought he saw tears in his brother's eyes, but when Edmund spoke, his voice was cold. "Oh, they haven't. I've been treated like a guest—a royal guest. I am only in danger if they mean to kill me with kindness—or poison me at one of their banquets, though that would be sadly useless." He cocked his head in that way he always did when he was thinking and said, quietly, "How bad is it, Peter?"

He wet his lips again. "…not so bad."

He could tell by the silence that followed that Edmund was not convinced. "Peter. How bad is it? If you don't tell me in detail what…what they've done, I won't be able to plan our escape. I have to know—and not just because I'm worried."

Right. He was planning an escape out of _this_ fortress. The lips of Peter's dry lips quirked. How he admired his brother's indefatigable sense of optimism.

He took a deep breath and began to count up his injuries. It was a long list.

"Um…twisted ankle, dislocated shoulder, something wrong with my kneecap, a few broken ribs—"

"How many is a few?"

Peter wrinkled his nose. "I'm not going to count them—maybe five?"

"That's more than a few."

"…"

"Go on."

"That's most of it. A flogging or two, as well, and my hand."

"What's wrong with your hand?"

"They…um…bruised it. Sword hand."

Edmund gave him a look and said, "Let's see it."

He didn't want to comply, but as his brother had not remarked upon the obvious exclusion of head and face injuries in the account, he decided not to press his luck. Edmund blanched when he saw the swollen right hand.

"Peter…"

"I think it's worse than it looks," Peter said. He had been lying shamelessly to himself for days now. Hopefully he was getting better at it.

Instead of coming back with some retort, Edmund just held his broken hand and looked at it, brown hair falling over his eyes. Which was exactly what Peter had been afraid of.

"Edmund, don't start trying to blame yourself for all this because frankly I haven't the energy to argue with you at the minute."

"But it was my plan—my stupid, idiotic, half-witted, mal-dreamed up plan—"

"And it was my idea that we switch places. And a good thing too. You know that you and the girls are my weakness." Peter moved his other hand to squeeze his brother gently. "I'm counting on you to be strong enough to hold out in spite of this. Me, I have the easy part. Physical torture is nothing (and, by the way, this is some of the lousiest torture I have ever had the displeasure to enjoy). It's what you're going through—the threat of guilt and responsibility, that overcomes me every time."

At last, Edmund let out a little laugh. "Funny. If I were in your place, I'd be a wreck. You'd be comforting me. How can you be so hurt and still…still…"

"Edmund." His voice was growing stronger now, because in talking it through, he'd worked out what was keeping him from going over the edge. "My strength is knowing that you are unhurt. I would willingly suffer a thousand floggings if it meant you and the girls were alright. It doesn't hurt when I think about how much worse it would be if our roles were reversed."

His brother laughed again, bitterly. "And my strength is supposed to be that at least you're not going through the guilt torture and blaming it all on yourself? You martyr."

Peter laughed and his ribs hurt him, but it didn't stop him from laughing again. "Just three more days, Ed. That's all you have to make it, and then you can tell them whatever you want but it will be too late. Peridan will have moved, and the information will be useless. They won't need us anymore."

"Right," Edmund replied. "So they'll kill us. Or ransom us. Do you think Susan would sell the silver candlesticks to get us back? After polishing them day and night for three whole years? No. So we'll be here forever unless they do decide to kill us, and then—"

"What?" Peter teased lightly. "Thinking twice about trying to escape?"

"Never," the younger said, with conviction. "Just…your _hand_…"

Peter touched his little brother's face gently and said, "Trust me, Ed. Physical wounds take less time to heal than emotional ones. Are you sure you're alright?"

The younger king nodded. "At least they let me see you—I'd been going mad with fear, not knowing whether you were even still alive."

"They may come at any time. To take you away." Peter felt Edmund tighten his grip on his hand and let out a quiet sigh. "Soon, Edmund. It will be over soon—whether we escape or are rescued."

There was an unspoken third way in which it could be over soon, but it was not one either brother was willing to consider. It harked at Edmund's mind so that after ten seconds or so he bowed his head against the door, still holding his brother's hand, and began to pray. Shifting his weight slightly and feeling every muscle and bone ache in reply to the movement, Peter joined him.

When the door opened half an hour later, Edmund squeezed Peter's hand once more and then stood. He was at peace, now, and would not need to be dragged away from his wounded brother.

It was only when he realized, however, that the man at the door was a fellow Narnian and that a sobbing Lucy was standing behind him and then flinging herself into his arms, that Edmund felt in full the gratitude and joy that comes with fulfillment of hope.

And he was definitely not letting Peter do this to him again.

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><p>"<em>Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails." 1 Corinthians 13: 7-8<em>


	15. ginger tea and adventurers

**A/N:** The long-awaited Bastable/Narnia crossover. If you have not read _The Story of the Treasure Seekers_ by Edith Nesbit, you should do so at once. Although you should be able to enjoy this chapter without having read said fantastic novel, you will get more out of it if you have.

For those who /do/ know the Bastables and have asked for this, I apologize for any discrepency about time. _Treasure Seekers_ was published in 1899, and _Magician's Nephew_ supposedly happened around 1900. So really the Bastables would already be living with the Indian Uncle instead of at Lewisham road, still, but Lewis does say at the beginning of MN that the Bastables were still digging for treasure there, so one may assume what one likes. Perhaps MN takes place earlier. Whatever. Probably only OldFashionedGirl95 (for whom I must thank for previewing this beforehand and giving me feedback) and perhaps Eavis will really care, but if you have any insights, please let me know!

Oh, and I apologize right up front for the ending. It hints horribly at a sequel that may or may not be written, but if it is, it will be a mystery in five parts.

Thanks for reading! Enjoy. :)

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><p>15.<p>

It was raining outside and Polly was book shopping.

She only lived a block or two away from the book stalls. Normally Digs came with her, but he had a cold and was holed up inside with ginger root tea and Aunt Letty had said that no visitors were to be allowed. Digory's mother had let her hang around a bit, and had even offered to come to the stalls with her in Digory's place (his mother was awfully great, for a grownup).

She seemed even more of a brick because Polly's own mother, the dimple-cheeked, sharp-eyed Mrs. Plummer, was not very lenient when it came to her daughter's activities. The coming-home-with-wet-shoes-and-stockings after the Adventure in the Wood Between the Worlds (during which she had jumped in several puddles) had been enough to cement her mother's conclusion that she was not wise enough to be left to herself.

"But Mummy," Polly protested, when her mother put her foot down. "I'm older now."

"By two months, Polly!" exclaimed Mrs. Plummer with more than a little exasperation. "You are only twelve years old—," ("Twelve and a half," muttered Polly), "—and I positively forbid you from wandering the streets of London alone. You remember that wild woman and the scene she caused—something to do with that Digory-boy's uncle. The streets aren't safe anymore."

But that was all beside the point, as Mrs. Mabel Kirke, pretty nearly completely recovered from her near-fatal illness, had persuaded Mrs. Plummer into letting her take Polly to look for books.

If there was anything Polly loved more than ginger root tea and a stack of favorite books, it was a good rainstorm. She liked the rare, sunny days well enough—especially the days when the earth was warm and damp, and they could go out and dig worms or adventure about the neighborhood. But when it rained, there was a beautiful, chilly greyness that hung about everything, and although most of these days were spent inside the smuggler's cave or playing games with Digory, book-shopping was just as nice.

"Polly, do look at this one!" whispered Aunt Mabel—Mrs. Kirke, really, but she insisted that she was practically an aunt now. Polly set down a beautifully illustrated copy of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes _and turned to look at whatever Digory's mum was holding out to her. Before she could examine what looked to be a first edition of a Kipling, a sudden pattering and splashing of feet, followed by a long crack of thunder, drew her attention to the door. Six shivering figures, dripping and trembling like wet dogs, began hissing at each other while the tallest one looked about as if trying to get his bearings.

"Oswald—he's soaked through and through. You _know_ it isn't good for him!"

"He's not the _only_ one who could catch a cold, you know, just because he's a poet and fragile."

One of the figures sneezed.

"You see!" the first voice said. "I _told_ you this was a bad idea!"

"Oh, shut it and let us think." This last was from the tallest figure, a boy who looked to be a year or two older than Polly. He had fair hair (although it was very wet) and was absently stripping off his coat and handing it to one of the smaller figures. "Take that, Noël."

There were, Polly thought, four boys and two girls. It was one of the boys (a good deal younger than her) who was shivering and sneezing, and one of the girls looked like she was trying not to cry.

"Excuse me," said the tall boy, glancing around the shop and at last fixing his gaze on the shop's owner. "Can you tell me the quickest way to Lewisham road?"

"Lewisham—you're a good way off. It's about eight miles south, across the Thames."

"Eight miles!" The boy looked slightly distressed. He muttered something under his breath, and glanced over at the other children. "Would you mind very much sir, if we waited here until the storm passes?"

"Here?" the owner sighed. "The lot of you? And soaked—I don't run a charity house, lad."

Polly wished there was something she could do, but then she felt Aunt Mabel move beside her and was glad that she was not alone and that there was a grown-up with her who could (and would) do something.

"You come with me, dear," Aunt Mabel said, setting down the antique book and giving the stall owner a reproving glance. "I'm sure we won't mind a little company on a rainy day. Will we, Polly?"

"No, m'am," Polly replied, grinning. The boy looked awfully relieved, and as soon as they were out the door, the oldest girl began to thank Aunt Mabel profusely and say she was awfully sorry for the trouble, and was very grateful, and hoped they wouldn't be too much of a nuisance.

"Never mind that, dear," Aunt Mabel said. She was a wonderful grown-up. "My, but there are a lot of you—what are your names?"

The oldest boy turned to her and said, quite grandly, "We are almost all that remains of the Noble House of Bastable. I am Oswald, and this is Dora, and the others are Dicky, Alice and Noël (they're twins) and H.O."

He said it in a very lordly fashion, and Polly couldn't help but be struck by his tone and manner and think, _Well_, now. He's had Adventures.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all," said Aunt Mabel, smiling at him (for she had also been amused by his introduction). "I am Mabel of the Noble House of Kirke, and this is Polly Plummer."

Oswald turned his gaze to Polly, and she couldn't help but blush a little. He looked as though he were reading her all the way through.

"I say," said the girl named Alice a minute or so later, when Digory's mother was speaking with Dora and walking a little ahead. "You've had Adventures, haven't you?"

"Course she has, ninny," said the one called Dicky, scornfully, before Polly had a chance to answer. "You can see she's not like some of the other girls. Bet she doesn't mind beetles and wasps and mud."

"I don't," said Polly, quite truthfully. She'd seen too much to be terrified by those sorts of things now—memories of a cold, dead world and a cold, dead sun quite displaced any irrational fears she might have that were natural to most girls her age.

"Do you know Kipling?" the littlest one asked.

Polly grinned. "Wouldn't be an adventurer if I didn't. 'Good Hunting,' and all that."

And then the questions were fast and quick around her—had she ever found any treasure, had she ever been captured by outlaws, had she solved a mystery, did the fortune of the House of Plummer need restoring, and so on. She learned, by and by, that they were very accustomed to doing all of those things. They were all (Oswald especially) very interested to hear about the house next-door that she and Digs never did explore, and they wanted to know all about Uncle Andrew and was he really mad?

They reached the house at last, and Aunt Letty fussed over Digory's mother (who was really still in the process of getting better from her illness and really shouldn't have been out in the rain) and then she began to fuss over the children, particularly Noël, who was turning a little blue. Ginger root tea was made and handed out, and Oswald made a fine speech to the grownups about never being able to repay their kindness and being forever in their debt.

"Yes, yes," said Aunt Letty, wrapping another blanket around Noël. "Polly, be a dear and take some tea up to Digory."

Polly's face brightened. She hurried up with the tea on a tray before Aunt Letty could remember that he was probably contagious and hadn't been allowed visitors thus far. When she opened the door, he was sitting up in bed, staring into the crackling fire on the hearth with a thoughtful expression on his face. Everything looked soft in that fire's light—his brown hair and eyes gleamed, and even though he was a little pale (the effect of the cold), the fire seemed to cast a rosy flush upon his cheeks.

He turned when Polly opened the door the rest of the way and first looked very glad to see her, then very pitiful indeed. "I am dying," he said.

She raised an eyebrow, so he added, mournfully, "Of boredom."

"You look alright," Polly remarked, setting down the tray on the table and smiling at him teasingly. "Aunt Letty's been a tiger—she wouldn't let me in for anything earlier today."

"I know," Digory said. Then, "I say, what's all that row downstairs? Have we got visitors?"

She nodded. "Six—and they're all related. They're lost adventurers Aunt Mabel and I found at the book stalls and took pity upon."

"Adventurers?" Digory's voice lost the faint hint of self-pity it had been carrying up till now and suddenly rang with that life-saving sentiment: curiosity (granted, it has been said to be injurious to the life of certain feline beings, but in Digory's case it brought the vigor of life back to his cold-stricken limbs).

"Yes," said Polly. "They know Kipling and all about treasure seeking and detectives. I think…I think they're the sort of people we could tell. If we could tell anyone."

A thoughtful silence followed. Digory rubbed his fingers through his hair (ignoring the ginger root tea, of which he was getting rather tired) and said, "I'd like to meet them. Their voices sound jolly—like they would understand, and not tell us it was all made-up and silly. Almost like they know about other worlds."

"I rather think they live in one," Polly said. She was feeling rather pensive, and the Bastables were certainly an anomaly one must consider very pensively.

There was a spot more of quiet, then Digory let out a great gusty sigh. "Oh, bother. I shan't get any rest now—here, hand me that robe. I'm coming down to meet them."

"Are you sure you're quite well enough?" Polly asked, though she obliged and handed him the robe without trying to keep from exerting himself.

Digory returned her concern with a rather scornful look. "It's a cold, silly, not pneumonia. And supposing we never see them again?"

Once he and Polly made it downstairs, however, it was clear that never seeing the Bastables again was not something they should be concerned about. Dora and Dicky had quite endeared themselves to Mabel Kirke, while Aunt Letty was very much attached to poor Noel (a grand poet, Digory and Polly soon learned) and funny little H.O. And Oswald greeted Digory as courteously and jovially as a merry knight would greet another, and Digory soon found himself agreeing with Polly about these funny people being from rather another world.

They did not tell the Bastables about their adventures in other worlds, though one time they came very close, and it is not entirely impossible that Oswald and the others would have believed them. Indeed, they became so attached during the Mystery of the House Next Door that it was really the only secret Digory and Polly had from him and his jolly siblings…but as Kipling says, that is another story for another time.


	16. fashion

**A/N: Eavis, you asked me to write some stories based of different quotes (some of which are from the Princess Bride, some of which I had to look up and which I really can't believe I'm using, but I am). Instead, I threw them all into one. I hope you don't mind the resulting ridiculousity too much. It was an interesting exercise...and one not without a great deal of entertainment on the author's part.**

**On the interesting qualities of Calormene fashion (may I never have to wear it).**

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><p>16.<p>

He was struggling to connect a difficult buckle on his armor when the laughter reached his ears. The start it gave him lost the hold he'd managed to find on the slippery leather, so it was with great patience that he gritted his teeth and tried to grip it back again, ignoring the form he knew was lounging in the doorway, smirking at him with those mocking brown eyes. After it had properly collected itself (hunched over, wheezing, in hysterics—all of which Peter ignored), the form spoke.

"I feel it necessary to inform you that I have only been waiting around to make fun of you before Susan can smooth your rumpled feathers by telling you how kingly it looks."

Peter grimaced and continued buckling the breastplate. "That does put a damper on our relationship."

He finished (amazingly—it was such an awkward angle) and stepped back to look in the mirror. And then rather wished he hadn't.

"You look very…fierce."

"I look ridiculous. I look like as Greek as a gladiator," Peter said at last, pushing at the helmet to see if he could get it to settle comfortably on his head. It was too loose, and the nose-guard got in the way of his vision. Yes, he looked ridiculous.

"You know, gladiators were Roman, not Greek."

"Edmund," the High King said through his teeth. He prodded the helmet a little more, then shook his head as his eyes took in the gaudy decorations, the cluttery look of his new finery. "I can't wear this. I'd not last a minute in a battle."

"It's ceremonial, Peter."

"Darn right it's ceremonial. No one in their right mind would fight in this!"

"…right, right. Because you're in your right mind. I keep forgetting." He was snickering again, probably thinking that no one in their right mind would even concede to try on such a silly suit of armor.

"Oh, so funny, Edmund," Peter growled. "So very clever—in a few minutes you'll be crowing. Just wait till Su gets you into one of these costumes."

"Unlike you, I am in my right mind," his brother teased. Then, when Peter whirled and tried to grab him (the armor might at least make a wrestling match more uncomfortable for the younger king), Edmund dodged out the door and shouted, "Oh, yes, come show all the servants how dignified your new armor makes you look."

Of course, Peter wasn't going to follow. He heard Edmund laugh (cruelly) and crow, delightedly, "Oh, the cleverness of me!"

Sometimes he thought he could strangle Edmund. And Susan. But he would let Lucy live. After all, she wasn't the one who had thought it would be fun to let the Calormene prince's personal smiths (who apparently thought him a posh and showy sort of king) design a suit of armor for him to wear…whenever he wasn't in danger of being killed, apparently. They had gone to all the trouble in the world to make it absolutely impractical and likely very expensive (had she even thought to consider how they were going to pay for this? Not out of his treasury—even if it was, as Susan put it, "Essential to keeping our balance in relation to the Calormene Empire).

He muttered, on a whimsy, "Does anyone else want to be king of the world?" and then considered shouting it out the window, and then decided that it wasn't exactly correct to be shout it from the window because technically he was only king of part of the world and he was only one of the kings. But really, it was enough to drive one mad and make one want to take a long holiday off a short plank (because the holiday would be at sea and it would not be a voyage that had any diplomatic purposes but there would probably be sharks in the water).

"Peter?" It was Susan. He turned to look at her, preparing to berate her long and proper and explain the hundred and forty nine reasons he was not going to wear this ridiculous set of armor (no, he was not allowing it the dignity of even being called a suit) when suddenly his scowl turned into a grin. She had an uncomfortable look on her face, and for good reason.

"Peter, don't laugh at me just now, I don't think I could bear it. I know it's their style and awfully flattering, but I don't think I can wear this and keep any shred of dignity with our Narnians. And even if it is to please those ambassadors, shouldn't we please our own people first?"

The High King almost reconsidered his position because clearly she was getting a taste of her own medicine (there really was no accounting for the taste of those southerners…really, he didn't know fruit _could be_ worn like that), but she looked so very uncomfortable and repentant that he grinned and said, "I think it would cause a riot. A feeding frenzy. For the safety of your person, sister, and the dignity of our court, I think it's safe to turn down the ambassador's generous offer of supplying us with traditional Calormene garments for the feast."

"Really?" Susan's eyes were shining. It was an excellent excuse and would not shame them in front of the ambassadors (who thought the Talking Beasts were odd anyway).

"Yes," said Edmund's voice from the hallway. "And Peter's would have us all dead of laughter!"

Peter looked at his queen and said, "Help me off with this armor, won't you, Su? I think Edmund wants to try it on."


	17. another dungeon, part 2

**A/N:** At Fierce Queen's request (I hope it doesn't disappoint), here is a continuation of "14. Another Dungeon," wherein Peter and Edmund were being held captive and Peter was badly wounded and then they were Rescued but nothing more was told.

Hopefully more coming in the future. My writer's block has vanished like the southern snows.

Enjoy.

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><p>17.<p>

The light from the door which had been flung open stabbed into his eyes like poisoned darts. It took all his strength to raise his arm to shield himself from the brightness, and for a moment, it seemed as though it was the Lion, shining like the sun, answering his frantic prayers with His glorious presence.

It was, in fact, his rescuers. He'd heard Edmund exclaim in surprise and joy in the next room, but somehow his vision was muddled and his brain was filled with cobwebs and he cringed away from the dark shapes that moved in front of him, blocking the light from the door. Then there were soft hands brushing against his face and unshackling him, pulling him to his feet, and then the pain returned.

He tasted salt tears on his lips before the darkness came, then nothing more.

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><p>Peter had been near death enough times to know the sorts of dreams that come when a man is on the verge of the next life. Often they were dark and filled with frightening images (for when a man is nearly killed multiple times in bitter battles, his head tends to collect these images subconsciously), and this dream (though it was more of a tempestuous fever-dream than a near-death-experience sort of dream) was no different.<p>

He was at the bottom of a pit with a line of jackals hovering about two yards away on all sides. This particular image was likely derived from the time he'd been thrown from his horse (which spooked at a viper and kicked up its heels most unexpectedly) while riding alone on the southern border of Archenland. His mount had fled after he'd knocked his head against a rock, and he'd awakened (with a dreadful headache and blurry vision that turned out to be a concussion) to see the leering faces of jackals hovering inches away from his face. He fought them off as best as he could, and apparently it was enough, for at last they drew back and waited for him to die of his head injury or of dehydration. Fortunately, Edmund had found him in time.

This time, however, there was no Edmund. The sky was black and the walls of the pit were steep. He kept flinging himself against the walls, seeking something to hold onto to pull himself up, but his fingers slipped every time he caught a protruding rock. This, he eventually realized, was because he only had one hand. The right hand, (which had been beaten and broken repeatedly by his captors in the not-dream world) had been cut off.

That was when he began to scream. He dared not examine the rest of him, for who knew what had become of his twisted ankle, the dislocated shoulder, the broken ribs…he was a monster. Misshapen, handicapped—not the king his country needed him to be.

"ASLAN!" he screamed, falling to his knees (his kneecap shattered under the impact). "I have failed you."

He had done his best, and they had done their worst. He had given his all, and even so, it was not enough. Now Narnia would only have Edmund (who was wise, but was he strong enough?) and Susan (who was strong, but was she patient enough?) and Lucy (who was patient, but was she stubborn enough?). It was as though the sword of Narnia had been broken, and what is Narnia with but a shield to guard it against its foes?

Peter despaired. It was his greatest flaw, that he despaired. He did not know it, but his way of thinking held to a greater span of emotion, so that in victory, he was jubilant, and in defeat, he was crushed. It was a flaw, but it was not his undoing.

For even as he cowered in the pit of his undoing, a light appeared.

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><p><em>"Peter…he's coming around…hand me that towel…more water…"<em>

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><p>A soft wind brushed across his face, smelling of summer flowers and hope. Suddenly the jackals vanished, he was enveloped in the sun, and his spirits lifted as a well-remembered voice chided him gently for losing heart and commended him for his actions.<p>

"You would not be my king if you were not willing to offer everything for my land," said the Lion, in a voice as smooth as honey. "Never doubt that my plans for you are, though they often lead through sorrow and suffering, _good_."

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><p><em>"Fever's broken…more ice…Peter, it's alright now…Cair Paravel…"<em>

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><p>"Why?" Peter asked, basking in glory yet still bewildered. "Why must we suffer and have sorrow when you could give us joy?"<p>

"Because," Aslan breathed. "If I gave you joy, would it not be easy for you to follow me and rejoice in my plans? Yet for every sorrow and every pain you suffer, your obedience to me grows a hundred times lovelier in my sight."

This was Peter's thought upon awakening. This was what he eventually tried (and failed) to describe to Edmund and Susan and Lucy during supper in his bedchamber one evening, while he was still too weak to leave his room. Of course, Edmund had the audacity to nod as if he knew it all along, and Lucy grinned and sighed, "Isn't that _just like_ Aslan to say something so lovely?"

Only Susan seemed to consider this deeply, as something freshly learned. It would mean something far greater to her in later years…but that is another story for another time.

All that remains to be told of this one is that Peter's hand (and knee, and shoulder, and ribs) was soon restored to normal (with some help from Lucy's cordial) and that both he and Edmund decided that next time there was a situation like this, they would simply not get thrown into the dungeon at all.

As if it was that easy.


End file.
